Hard Passage

“Why can’t we just go in there?” Cherenko demanded.

Rostov removed his hands from inside his coat long enough to blow into them, and said, “Because it would be the fastest way to getting our throats cut.”

Cherenko’s cheeks reddened more. “But they could not possibly know we are here!”

“Shush!” Rostov scolded him. “Keep your voice down, Sergei. Do you want to die where you stand?”

What Cherenko took for paranoia, Rostov knew to be prudence. Recent violence had increased against those who betrayed the Sevooborot Molodjozhny—also known as the SMJ—and Rostov didn’t feel like becoming another of their statistics. Many had attributed the violent outbreaks against foreign immigrants—particularly those of Arabic heritage—to the works of the Sevooborot. In truth, the youthful revolutionaries couldn’t have cared less about the immigration problems in Russia. The fascists and social purists were responsible for most of that carnage, and their activities were confined to cities where large populations of foreign exchange students attended college, Moscow being one example.

Rostov and Cherenko had been members in good standing with the Sevooborot until two weeks earlier. Rostov had no trouble with the violence perpetrated by his comrades, even that against locals, but he didn’t believe it was wise to involve outsiders in the great undertaking Sevooborot was about to embark on. When he made his opinion known to other members they betrayed him to the leadership, and before long he received an ultimatum to immediately and unequivocally renounce his claims or suffer penalties. Rostov refused and they forced him out, along with Cherenko. Cherenko, who had never done any wrong, became a sacrificial lamb solely because of his friendship and history with Rostov. The warning had come unbidden from a few men inside the group sympathetic to Rostov and Cherenko. The pair had been awakened in the dead of night, then rushed sleepy-eyed through the cold and crunching snow to a waiting automobile.

Two weeks passed and the safehouse where Rostov and Cherenko had been staying was compromised. With the help of his girlfriend’s connections in her job with a local government office in St. Petersburg, Rostov and Cherenko managed to contact the American government with a plea for asylum and immunity in trade for information about a plot against the United States.

Now they stood directly across the street from the small hotel where Peace Corps volunteers met. Among the group was a pair of undercover agents with forged documents that would get Rostov and Cherenko out of Russia and into the United States. Neither man really had a plan for what he would do after that, but for the moment the most important thing was to make contact without detection by their former colleagues. The Sevooborot had eyes and ears everywhere.

Rostov settled on the best course of action and with a self-assuring nod took two steps in the snow before he felt Cherenko’s hand fall on his shoulder. Rostov turned to look at his friend and saw Cherenko’s eyes weren’t focused on him but rather on something up the road. Through the grayish light of dusk and the white tendrils of snow he made out the gloomy whitewash of fast approaching headlights.

Rostov stepped into the shadows of the building and grabbed his friend’s hand, pulling the man down with him as he crouched. For at least an hour the street had been relatively deserted, people staying off the roads due to the inclement weather. Most citizens knew when to stay indoors, which left one of two possibilities: one, the occupants were outsiders; two, they were counting on the fact most people had the good sense to stay off the streets. Something in Rostov’s psyche told him the latter scenario seemed more likely. A minute later his suspicions were confirmed when the vehicle stopped at the curb in front of the hotel and four men in black leather jackets with machine pistols spilled from it.

The men looked in all directions, a bit wildly, and Rostov caught himself holding his breath. Fortunately, the gunners didn’t see the two men crouched in the shadows of the tobacco shop across from the hotel. Rostov and Cherenko watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as the men turned, barged through the revolving door of the hotel and faded from view. For a time, they heard nothing but the sounds of the violent storm and the muffled idle of the waiting car’s engine.

And then an idea crept into Rostov’s mind.

AGENT LYLE CARRON OF THE Central Intelligence Agency’s counterespionage unit watched the Peace Corps volunteers with feigned interest. He had only marginal curiosity in the activities of the people arrayed along the rows of tables in the hotel conference room, and he cared even less about their itinerary over the next few days. The thing that concerned Carron most as he checked his watch were the two young men who had missed their deadline.

Carron gazed at his counterpart across the room. The Company had just given the young, fresh-faced accountant from Langley his first assignment here for no other reason than his fluency in Russian. Big deal. Carron was fluent in Russian, too, seeing as how he’d operated with fair regularity in this country ever since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. And while he admired the youthful exuberance of his fair-haired companion, what he really wished was that they had sent another veteran with him on this mission. Now he had to babysit three kids instead of just Rostov and Cherenko.

George Balford didn’t meet Carron’s gaze—he didn’t even notice Carron had looked in his direction—because he had his nose in the pamphlets and materials passed out by the chair of this workshop session. Carron thought about yanking the kid for a little sidebar in the restroom, but he didn’t want to risk the rendezvous with their two contacts. Carron had found it difficult to fit into the role of a Peace Corps volunteer. Obviously, he was older than the rest of them and a couple had remarked on that oddity. One young woman sitting next to him on the bus ride from the airport to the hotel had asked a lot of questions, so Carron had to make small talk and still keep his answers general enough that she wouldn’t spot him for the fraud he was.

Carron mused at her potential reaction had he broken down and said, “Listen, lady, I’m not part of the Peace Corps! I’m a covert agent for the CIA here in Russia to meet members of the Sevooborot who plan to break a terrorist plot against the U.S. wide open! Okay? You happy now?”

The thought of her stunned silence brought a smile to Carron’s face, but he shook himself back to reality and looked at his watch again. Balls. Where the crap were those two Russians? If Carron had to sit through another mundane workshop he might have to shoot himself with the pistol he’d found stashed securely inside his hotel room. This entire mission stunk anyway to Carron. What would a couple of young hoods inside the SMJ know about a plot by the Jemaah al-Islamiyah to supply arms and fuel the Youths Revolution in Russia? Why any of that would have an impact on the United States remained a mystery to Carron. Not that he cared all that much. His job was simply to see the pair safely out of the country, and that’s exactly what he planned to do.

The sound of people clapping thundered abruptly in Carron’s ears, and he realized they had drawn the session to a close. Good, he could hit the head and relieve himself before the next one started in ten minutes. Carron got to his feet, indicated his destination with a gesture to Balford—the young guy simply nodded an acknowledgment—and then hurried for the restrooms down the hall just outside the conference room.

Most of the volunteers rushed the podium to get some face time with the presenter, so Carron pretty much had the bathroom to himself. It wasn’t all that great, but it was clean and functional with a guy waiting inside to do everything from shine shoes and buff fingernails to spray him with the most horrendous smelling colognes on the market. Carron did his business, washed his hands and made for a quick exit. As he stepped from the restroom, he noticed four men in leather jackets enter the front door and rush the conference room. At the same moment, he spotted the wicked glint of light on the gunmetal of the weapons they held.

Carron reached beneath his coat and withdrew his .45-caliber pistol, but he traveled only three steps before screams and shouts from the conference room echoed into the hallway. The CIA agent picked up the pace, weapon held directly in front of him in a two-handed grip, but he was still some distance from the closed door of the conference room when he heard shouts followed by gunfire. First came the single report of a pistol immediately followed by short bursts from several submachine guns. Carron didn’t have to think about what it meant. Balford had probably died in that short-lived cacophony of violence.

He reached the door and crouched to consider his options. Not that Carron really had any. This wasn’t happening as he had planned. At least now he had some explanation for why Rostov and Cherenko were late. They were either dead—fallen at the hands of the SMJ—or they had expected this and were hiding in fear of their lives. In any case, Carron had bigger problems. There was no doubt in his mind that these aggressors were part of the SMJ, but he wondered how they’d known about the rendezvous. Was there a leak inside the Company or had it come from those connections made by Leonid Rostov’s girlfriend? Maybe the whole thing had been a hoax from the beginning, a way to get moles inside America. That didn’t make sense, either, that the SMJ would go to that kind of trouble for such a transparent charade.

No, this had to be something else. Something bigger. And as Carron waited in the hallway, his heart thudding against his chest, he couldn’t help but wonder just how deep, and how far up, it actually went.

LEONID ROSTOV CRAWLED agonizingly through eight inches of snow and slush toward the idling sedan. He realized how futile his plan would be if another car decided to come down the street. They wouldn’t be able to see him through the thickening snowfall, and in all likelihood would run over him. Rostov tried to ignore such morose thoughts and focused on the task at hand. He could almost feel Cherenko’s eyes on him as he crawled across the street.

When he reached the sedan, Rostov rose to one knee and tried the passenger door handle. It gave under his hand. Smiling with satisfaction, Rostov reached beneath his coat and drew the 9 mm Makarov pistol that was holstered beneath his arm. He then jerked the handle upward and yanked back on the door. He jumped in and stuck his pistol’s muzzle within an inch of the face of the surprised driver. In the heartbeat before the brief flash of the shot, Rostov recognized the young man as Josef Brish, a low-ranking member of the Sevooborot. Brish’s head exploded under the impact of the 9 mm slug that punched through the side of his forehead and blew his brains out.

Rostov turned and waved for Cherenko to join him, then opened the driver’s door and shoved Brish’s corpse from the cab. By the time his friend joined him, Rostov was nearly out of breath from the exertion.

“Are you okay?” Cherenko asked with mild concern.

Rostov nodded, although he continued fighting to catch his breath. He’d been experiencing shortness of breath and dizziness for the past few weeks. Rostov had smoked for a number of years as a teenager but had since given it up. Their recent exile had prevented Rostov from seeing a doctor. Well, he could get the care he needed once they were safely in America. If they ever got to America.

“Shut the door,” Rostov finally managed to say as his wheezing abated. “We must go now.”

He put the sedan into low gear and pulled from the curb slowly to avoid skidding. They couldn’t afford to dig themselves into a rut and end up going nowhere fast. Once they had traveled a few blocks, the two men began to feel better although they didn’t speak. They were watching every side road, every mirror, for any and every potential threat.

After a time Cherenko said, “I think we have gotten away with it.”

Rostov looked in his rearview mirror and replied, “You may be right. But we cannot assume anything.”

“How did they know, Leo?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Rostov’s thick eyebrows pinched together in concentration. “The fingers of the Revolution run deep, though. You should know this by now. We are not safe as long as we remain in Russia.”

“Should we call Kisa?”

“No!” Rostov barked at the mention of his lover’s name. When he saw Cherenko wince, he patted his arm and said more quietly, “That would put her in too much danger. They are probably monitoring her calls, in which case she may already be in trouble.”

“Do you think that’s how they knew?” Cherenko ventured.

“It’s possible.”

“So what do we do now?”

“All that we can do, my friend. We wait.”

CHAPTER ONE

St. Petersburg, Russia

Mack Bolan gazed out his hotel-room window and saw four armed men exit a sedan in front of the building. He immediately moved from the window to the nearby table, where he shrugged into the nylon shoulder holster that bore his Beretta 93-R. Then he donned a cream-colored sports jacket to hide the weapon.

As Bolan left the room and headed for a set of back stairs that provided the fastest unobstructed route to the first floor, he thought back on Hal Brognola’s briefing.

“HER NAME IS Kisa Naryshkin,” said Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations group, America’s ultra-covert antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia. “And according to our intelligence, she’s the only link we have to Leonid Rostov and Sergei Cherenko.

“While this one falls totally under the jurisdiction of the CIA, we would feel a whole lot better with you there to act as backup, Striker,” Brognola had told him.

“You’re worried this might go hard,” Bolan replied.

Brognola nodded. “Yeah. The guy they have there to oversee the transfer is Lyle Carron, and he’s got a lot of years with the Company. He’s one of their top agents on the Russian desk, as I understand it. George Balford’s another story, though. The guy’s only three months out of Langley, background in accounting.”

Bolan frowned. “When is the CIA going to learn that bean counters aren’t exactly the best choice for these types of operations? A sensitive case like this requires a certain expertise.”

“That was our assessment, as well,” said Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller. “That’s why we felt it was best to call you in on this one. Rostov and Cherenko claim to have information critical to uncovering some type of terrorist attack against the United States by the Jemaah al-Islamiyah. Apparently the Sevooborot Molodjozhny, also known as both the Youth Revolution and the SMJ, has made some type of handshake agreement with them, where the JI will provide the SMJ arms and training.”

“For what?” Bolan asked.