The Judas Project

Ilya Malenkov had furnished her with a mix of information and, combined with what she had gleaned from the computer, it was enough to give Tchenko a starting point.

Malenkov, an FSB agent, had been part of the team responsible for the slaughter of her family. The initial hunt had been orchestrated by Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin was a Moscow racketeer, an opportunist who would involve himself in any venture that offered a profit. He was a careful man, who covered his tracks well and managed to stay ahead of the law through high contacts and bribery. From Malenkov’s confession Tchenko learned of Bulanin’s involvement with the search for information her father had gathered on the FSB’s involvement with something he called Black Judas. Pieter Tchenko’s investigation had brought the covert team of FSB and gangsters on his trail. Though she didn’t know whether her father had given up the information he had collected, her family had still been murdered. Coming to terms with that was proving difficult for Natasha Tchenko, and she was not even sure that if she actually completed her mission her pain would be ended. All she could do now was go through the motions, pushing the memories to the back of her mind while she conducted her search.

She had names and locations.

The e-mail to Seminov pinpointed the names she had extracted from Malenkov. Her hope was that it might kick-start another investigation into the connection between the FSB, Krushen and Leopold Bulanin.

Her starting point was the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan, where Malenkov had told her the Russian team led by Mischa Krushen had just moved. Once she had her flight arranged, she had asked the London travel agent to book her into a hotel there. It would give her a base, somewhere she could work out of. She knew she was going in cold, with little advance information about her enemies. When she was on undercover operations for OCD, there was always a pre-ops period to study the opposition to learn about their habits and their propensity for violence, whether the undercover operative might be known to the target. It was standard procedure, necessary so that the undercover agent had less chance of facing the unexpected. It didn’t guarantee total safety. There was no such thing in undercover work.

This time Natasha Tchenko was walking in blind. All she had were sketchy pictures of the men she was stalking. She had read up on what OCD had on the suspects. It gave her some physical images, but little else. But she knew they were dangerous individuals, used to working in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for Commander Seminov’s generosity, she might never have been able to look at their thin files.

It was late afternoon when she finally checked into the hotel. She went directly to her room, undressed and relaxed under a hot shower. After she had dried herself she fell into bed and slept through until the following morning from sheer exhaustion.

TCHENKO AWOKE from a deep and troubled sleep with a shocked gasp bursting from her lips and sweat coursing down her face. Panting for breath that seemed to have difficulty forcing itself from her lungs, she stared across the hotel room, barely aware that sunlight was ghosting through the curtains. The bedsheets were tangled around her lower body, almost imprisoning her legs, and she kicked them free with frantic actions until they slid to the floor. In a protective response she pulled her arms around her body, lowering her head, and fought back the tears threatening to flood her eyes. She remained in this position until her emotions calmed and she was back in control. Only then did she uncoil and slowly swing her legs off the bed, pushing to her feet where she remained motionless. She fought to eliminate the dark horrors flooding her mind, concentrating on reminding herself who she was and why she was here….

Her name was Natasha Tchenko. She was twenty-six years old, and was a Russian cop with four years served in the OCD in Moscow. At this present time she was on extended leave in the United States of America.

She had come to America to find the men responsible for the slaughter of her family, and when she found them she intended to pass sentence and execute them.

As the departing fragments of the dream drifted from her conscious thoughts—the same dream that came to her unbidden and unwanted most nights—Tchenko crossed the room and parted one of the curtains enough for her to stare out at the morning.

The dream was the same as always, seen from her perspective and reliving that dreadful moment when she had walked into the Moscow apartment to find her cruelly murdered family: her father and mother, throats crudely slit, blood pooling thickly into the carpet; her fourteen-year-old brother, Karel, his adolescent body naked and disemboweled, the glistening viscera trailing in soft coils across the floor.

The visions returned to her in the long, dark nights when her very soul cried for release, when she fought her silent battle to be released from those images, yet felt herself paralyzed and helpless as only the victim of a sleeping nightmare can feel. There was no escape until the nightmare scenario had played itself out and she would burst from that soundless torment, as if floating up from the deep, escaping into reality, her naked body bathed in sweat, gasping for breath.

The woman turned from the window and crossed to the bathroom where she stepped into the shower and turned on the cold water. As it struck her flesh she gasped against the chill, but stood until she became used to the hissing stream. She reached for the soap, lathering herself until she had washed away the sweat and with it the remaining shadows of her nightmare. When she stepped from the shower, she crossed to the sink. Her image stared back at her from the mirror. Thick dark hair framed a strong, not unattractive face. True, she needed a little sun to remove the pale skin and the emergence of shadows under her bright, deep brown eyes. She stroked fingers across the firm, high cheekbones, flexed her full, generous mouth.

“Tasha Tchenko,” she said to her image, “you are a mess. Do something about it.”

She called room service and ordered breakfast. While she waited for it to arrive she turned on the TV and flicked through endless channels until she found a news program that felt a little less frenetic than most. She sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs and immersed herself in the news summary. When her breakfast arrived she handed the smiling bellman a tip, then settled down to scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and toast. She helped herself to a cup of coffee. Immersed in her food she almost missed the item on the TV. She leaned forward so as not to miss a word of the report, turning up the sound.

It concerned a death. A murder, in fact. Nothing unusual in that. Most TV news reports back home in Moscow carried such items every day. East or West, people still indulged in killing each other on a regular basis.

This crime caught Tchenko’s attention because the photograph displayed on the screen, taken from the dead man’s passport, identified him as one Jarek Ovid. That was not his real name. She knew him as Oleg Risovich. He was a member of the FSB, working under Mischa Krushen. She listened to the report with growing interest. It appeared that Risovich had been attacked and stabbed to death in a downtown area known for its drug dealing. If Risovich had been trying to do some business, he most likely would have been going against Krushen’s agenda. Krushen would not be pleased about that. He would want to remain in the background, not draw any unwanted attention to himself or his people.

Tchenko picked up the local telephone directory and searched for the Grand Rapids Police Department’s address.

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?”