Infiltration

“I am not sure where I was supposed to meet him. I had instructions only to wait once I’d been caught, and that he would send someone to collect me. That is the extent of my knowledge.”

Bolan considered his options. He knew the location of Godunov’s West Hampton estate, but taking Lutrova straight there concerned him. If he did, Godunov would be immediately suspicious about where Bolan had gotten his information, particularly since it seemed Lutrova didn’t know anything about it. That left the downtown offices at Chase One Plaza as his best bet. It would have been the logical decision if he hadn’t known anything about Godunov’s private residence.

The plan was designed to be simple and straightforward.

Godunov needed something desperately in order to execute whatever designs he had on the New York financial system. Bolan had that something in his grasp. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to get Godunov bartering for the goods. Bolan had opted to use an old cover that Kurtzman was able to resurrect whenever needed. The alias Frankie Lambretta had served him well during his war against the Mafia, and later he’d used it on occasion when penetrating organized crime. On a couple of occasions, Kurtzman had killed him off or put the identity into the prison system. Once more, Bolan would be out on the streets with credentials as a former Mob hit man that just about any criminal organization would be proud to have on its rolls.

Bolan checked his watch and noted it was just past 1600 hours.

The Executioner had traded his government-issue suit and tie for slacks, a black polo shirt and a brown leather jacket to protect against the biting winter winds of New York City. He’d purchased baggy jeans and a sweatshirt for Lutrova, along with an overnight bag that contained a change of clothes and a toothbrush. The hacker’s hands were free, but Bolan had bound his feet with thick plastic riot cuffs to lessen the risk that the guy would try to take off. The Beretta 93-R rode in shoulder leather, and Bolan had stashed the remainder of his arsenal on the backseat of the rental.

His bag of tricks included twin satchel charges of C-4 plastic explosives configured with blasting caps and a remote detonator. It also contained a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle with spare magzines and ammo, a carbine version of the Fabrique National Herstal SA FNC with plenty of spare 5.56 mm NATO ammunition. Bolan didn’t expect too much in the way of serious trouble at this point, but better prepped than dead.

He made a right off Chambers Street onto Broadway, and could see the Chase Manhattan Plaza building towering in the distance, one of the tallest structures in New York City. Construction on the sixty-floor building had been completed in 1961, and it was still one of the fifty tallest buildings in the world. The only other tenant beside J.P. Morgan Chase & Co. was Milbank, and the recent addition of Godunov’s puppet firm Vastok & Karamakov, Ltd.

Bolan had to admit that Godunov’s attempt to operate like an open and legitimate enterprise was a gutsy move. It also spoke of the man’s great arrogance that he thought he could actually get away with it and not fall under the scrutiny of the federal government. Still, he’d proved adept at avoiding trouble so far. Bolan planned to change all that. He wondered exactly how Godunov would react when he walked straight into the man’s offices with the RBN’s prize puppet under his arm.

They arrived at One Chase Manhattan Plaza, and Bolan circled the block twice before choosing a belowground parking structure two streets over. After he parked and killed the engine, the soldier flipped out a knife and cut the riot cuffs from Lutrova’s ankles. Some mixture of surprise and relief spread across Lutrova’s features, but Bolan ignored that. Instead, he favored the hacker with a warning smile.

“You’re liberated only for the time being,” Bolan said. “Don’t forget you’re still on a very short leash. You double-cross me, and I’ll kill you in the blink of an eye. Understood?”

The relief in Lutrova’s expression melted. “Yes.”

“Good. Now let’s go met Yuri.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The walk to One Chase Manhattan Plaza took under five minutes, but another ten elapsed before Bolan located Godunov’s office suites on the twenty-eighth floor.

He’d managed to get through the security with his firearm, thanks to the forged credentials provided by Stony Man. It never ceased to amaze him how easy it was to get past a uniformed security detachment with an itty-bitty gold badge. The officer in charge had barely scrutinized his identification, taking more of an interest in Bolan’s companion. And with good reason. Despite the new threads, Bogdan Lutrova hardly carried the demeanor or attitude of a model citizen. Fortunately, Bolan had been able to explain it all away by letting them know that Godunov was expecting him, and they were eventually waved through.

When they stepped off the elevators, Bolan heard Lutrova take a sharp breath. He scanned the hacker’s face and then followed his gaze until his eyes came to rest on a tall, bald man with a beak-like nose and pursed lips.

“Godunov?” Bolan asked.

Lutrova nodded.

The soldier grabbed Lutrova’s arm and guided him steadily in Godunov’s direction. The Russian crime lord was standing at the reception desk, flirting with the secretary. Bolan would have paid a nickel to have a picture of Godunov at the moment the man’s attention focused on the pair. For a long time—or so it seemed— Godunov didn’t say a word. At first, Bolan thought the guy might try to act as if he didn’t know Lutrova, but a glance at Bolan told him attempting any such charade would be pointless.

“Mr. Godunov?” Bolan said in greeting.

The Russian nodded, taking up the act, and offered his hand. Bolan decided to shake it so the secretary didn’t get nervous and start punching buttons. Godunov immediately released Bolan’s hand and then turned to look Lutrova in the eyes. A patina of disgust washed over Godunov’s expression and then dissipated just as quickly into one of cordiality.

“Bogdan, it is very nice to see you.”

“And you, sir,” Lutrova muttered.

Godunov didn’t miss a beat. “I trust your trip was…uneventful, gentlemen?”

“It was,” Bolan replied. “Our apologies for being late.”

“Not at all.” Godunov swept his arm in the direction of the hallway behind the massive main reception desk manned by four young women. “Why don’t we adjourn to my office, where you can get off your feet? I’m sure you’re both exhausted.”

“Thank you,” Bolan said.

With the show of pleasantries dispensed, Bolan and Lutrova followed Godunov down the hallway to a pair of double doors at the end. As the Russian opened them, Bolan reached into his jacket and rested his hand on the butt of the Beretta 93-R as he shoved Lutrova between Godunov and himself. If any trouble waited on the other side of the door, he figured Lutrova would buy it first and give him time to react.

The office was devoid of combatants, and while Bolan relaxed somewhat, he didn’t completely let down his guard. Being a paranoid and suspicious type was just part of the role camouflage. It would take quite a bit of convincing to make Godunov buy the story he was about to spin, and prove even more difficult to earn Godunov’s trust enough to hire him. He was hoping that Lutrova would be the trump card in his hand, and it was one Bolan planned to play very early.

Once they were inside, Godunov’s demeanor became venomous. “Who the fuck are you?”

Bolan remained calm, with an expression that implied Godunov didn’t intimidate him. “Not important. What’s important is that I have something here I think you want.”

Godunov exchanged glances with Lutrova, and then asked Bolan, “What makes you think that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Maybe your sources are wrong,” Godunov said, moving to a position behind his desk.

Bolan reached into his jacket.

Godunov raised a palm. “Easy.”

“As long as you keep your hands where I can see them. Try anything and you’ll be dead before help can arrive.”

“You seem a bit jumpy, Mr….”

“Just never mind that right now. What I want to know from you is if pretty boy—” Bolan jerked his head in Lutrova’s direction “—is worth anything to you. If not, I’ve got some buyers who could put him to work on some pet projects they got going.”

Godunov laughed. “You’re not actually here to sell him to me. Are you?”

“So you’re saying he’s not worth anything to you.”

“That’s not what I said,” Godunov replied.

“Look, don’t make a jerk out of me, pal.” Bolan bristled in true mobster fashion to help sell the act, then continued, “You want to pull someone else’s rod, then you go ahead and do that. Me, I’m just a man who looks for business opportunities wherever I can find them.”

“Well, you must understand my position,” Godunov said, switching tact to appeal to Bolan’s sense of reason. “You’re asking me to basically turn over my own hard-earned cash for this young man. What makes you think he’s of any value to me?”

“Because I know where I took him from,” Bolan said. “How do you think I knew you’d be here?”

Godunov appeared to seriously consider this, and then gave Lutrova a look that was murderous, at best. It seemed Lutrova had given away information he shouldn’t have—or Bolan had given away something he shouldn’t have, slipped up in some way, and that had made Godunov very suspicious. In any case, it didn’t appear the Russian crime lord planned to show his own hand, since his original demeanor returned in a moment.

“You’re saying that it was you who snatched him from U.S. Customs?”

“That’s right,” Bolan replied. “That so hard to believe, pal?”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” Godunov replied, spreading his arms. “You show up here, armed, with something that doesn’t really belong to you. You tell a crazy story about how you wrested this man, whom you do not know, away from a group of armed U.S. Customs agents—”