"Guess."

The woman snorted. "You may come in, Mr. Belasko. The door is open."

Bolan opened the door and found Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova still in uniform and standing by an open suitcase on the bed. He glanced at the suitcase. "Don't bother to unpack."

The woman stood ramrod straight and stared at Bolan for a long moment. Her hands coiled into fists, and her face was a study in controlled fury. She spoke with steely calm. "I see. Your government is sending me back to Russia?"

Bolan shook his head. "No. But you and I aren't sticking around. She visibly relaxed. "I see. I am to accompany you in your investigations?"

"As an official observer and Russian liaison." Her eyes narrowed. "Ah."

"Is there a problem?"

Svarzkova bit her lip in indecision. She shrugged and spoke. "I am a military-intelligence officer. My training is as a field agent. I have received full combat and investigative training. I have been decorated for action in the field. Observer and liaison are-" she searched for a word "Constraining."

Bolan frowned. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Your customs men at the airport. They took my gun. Your State Department has informed me I will not require a firearm in my operating capacities as liaison and observer."

Bolan sighed. "What kind of gun do you want?"

Svarzkova blinked at him.

He smiled. "Short of an RPG-7, I can probably get you anything you want."

"That will not be necessary. I had intended to get weapons at the Russian emba.s.sy, regardless of your State Department regulations. However, I did not wish problems when you saw me armed."

Bolan spread his hands. "I wouldn't have you any other way."

Svarzkova's eyebrows rose. Bolan changed the subject. "Constantine Markov was your man following Baibakov."

The agent stiffened slightly, and then apparently saw little reason to deny it. "Yes. He was sent by us to monitor Baibakov once we became aware of his activities with the Red Falcons against the United States. He was to terminate him, but could not get close. We were considering sending in a Spetsnaz strike team when you showed up."

"So you decided not to get your hands dirty."

Svarzkova shrugged. "You and your militia friends were expedient."

"And expendable." Bolan frowned. "So why did he go along on the attack?"

The Executioner was startled to see the agent smile sadly. "Constantine was a patriot, and he was Spetsnaz. He considered Baibakov a disgrace. He went along as insurance. Now he has died in vain."

The Executioner knew all too well what it was like to lose comrades. "He helped break the Red Falcons in Sarajevo. He saved many lives. He was Spetsnaz, and he died going forward."

The lieutenant swallowed hard. "Thank you, Mr. Belasko. You are very kind."

Bolan folded his arms across his chest. "You keep calling me that."

The woman folded her arms in return and gave Bolan an amused look. "That was the name used by a man fitting your description in Sarajevo. Another man fitting your description used the name of Brand when he operated in the Russian republic in cooperation with Russian Military Intelligence against the mafiya." She grinned. "Do you have a more current name you would prefer?"

"You can just call me Mike."

"Fine." She looked at her watch. "So, tell me. Where are we going?"

"First we go to the Russian emba.s.sy and let you get what you need. Then we catch a plane to Kansas."

Mack Bolan walked into the gray-walled security control room of the Leavenworth Maximum Security Prison. Svarzkova walked in step behind him. Two large uniformed guards stood behind a counter, flanking the captain of the guards while two more stood off to the side. The captain smiled professionally.

"Please place all your weapons on the counter."

The guards had been told they were having important visitors and they were to extend every courtesy. They also knew the visitors' clearances came straight from G.o.d. They were intent on projecting steely efficiency. Their eyebrows rose as Bolan placed his 9 mm Beretta on the counter, followed by a snub-nosed revolver and a combat knife. One of the guards quickly ran a metal-detecting baton up and down his body.

"He's clear."

Valentina Svarzkova stepped forward, and the guards stood even straighter. Her demeanor had changed with her clothing, and she was dressed to impress in an entirely different fashion.

She now wore denim jeans and an intriguingly tight blue sweater. A brown leather jacket and running shoes completed her ensemble, and her blond hair spilled loosely over her shoulders. She could easily have been an exercise model. She saluted the captain and drew a CZ-75 9 mm automatic from a behind-the-back holster and placed it on the counter. She then drew a tiny PSM automatic from an ankle holster and put it on the table, as well. The guard cleared his throat. "Anything else?"

She reached up her jacket sleeve. The six-inch clip-point blade of an AK-47 bayonet rasped out of its sheath. The handle and guard had been removed, and the metal tang was wrapped in black electrician's tape. The guards looked at her with new respect as she placed it on the counter. Even by Leavenworth standards, it was a very professional-looking shank. Svarzkova stood back from the counter and smiled pleasantly. "That is all."

The guard ran the baton up and down her length. "All clear."

The captain nodded at Bolan. "You are clear to enter. The inmate you requested is in holding room 12. Two armed guards will be outside the door during your interview."

Bolan nodded his thanks, and he and Svarzkova went down a narrow hallway and entered room 12. The lieutenant closed the door behind them, and Bolan examined the man sitting at the lone table in the little room. His hair was slightly grayer than Bolan remembered, and his skin was pale from lack of sunshine, but other than that he still looked formidable. He was Bolan's height, and powerful muscles strained the seams of his orange prison uniform. He had been clean-shaved before, but now he had a short Vand.y.k.e beard and mustache. His hands were shackled to a chain around his waist, and more chains held his ankles too closely for him to make any sudden movement.

Major Pietor Ramzin's eyes flared wide as he looked into the face of Mack Bolan. "You."

Bolan folded his arms across his chest. "You look well, Ramzin. I see you have recovered from your wounds."

"Yes. I received excellent medical care."

"So, how is prison life treating you?"

Ramzin snorted. "Oh, it is not so bad. Your prisons are much nicer than a Russian gulag, and it is certainly better than the death penalty." The Russian shrugged in his chains. "We have cable television here, and an excellent weight-training facility. The food, too, is much better than we had in the military. The situation could be much worse."

"Making new friends?"

Ramzin smiled shrewdly. "I will admit, your prison is full of uncultured individuals. However, you might be interested to know that most of my surviving men were sent here, as well. So I am among comrades, and have people to speak the mother tongue with." Ramzin's smile went cold. "As for my new friends, even a single Spetsnaz man is equal to four or five of your American Crips or Bloods. We have taught them to respect us. The Aryan Nation trash tried to bring us into their ranks, once. So we broke them like kindling."

Bolan smiled in irony. Ramzin was the kind of man who would be in command in almost any situation you put him, and he suspected half a platoon of former Russian special-forces troops might well shift the balance of power in a prison.

Ramzin smiled at Svarzkova. "And now an old friend brings me a beautiful woman."

Valentina Svarzkova spit in his face. "You are a disgrace to the motherland, Ramzin."

The major's ma.s.sive arms and shoulders flexed against his chains. With a supreme effort he reined in his anger. He rearranged his face into a smile again. "Ah. How do the Bloods say it? A home girl."

She gazed at him stonily. "I am Senior Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova, Russian Military Intelligence."

Ramzin regarded her with new interest. Spetsnaz operated directly under the command of Russian Military Intelligence.

Bolan decided to cut to the chase.

"Baibakov is alive."

For a second Ramzin actually looked shocked. Then he grinned from ear to ear. "Excellent."

"We believe he is now in the United States and working with a Serbian terrorist group called the Red Falcons. We believe they intend to strike at American targets."

Ramzin considered this. "You and the lieutenant are here to stop him?"

Bolan nodded. "That's right."

"I will light a candle for you."

Svarzkova lunged forward and struck Ramzin. Her entire body twisted with the blow as her cupped palm cracked against the side of his face with concussive force. It wasn't a slap. It was a martial-arts open-hand strike, and Ramzin was nearly knocked out of his seat.

The Russian shook his head to clear it, then grinned up at the lieutenant. The side of his face was already purpling with swelling, and blood dripped from his nostrils and stained his teeth. "I am pleased the leaders sent a real agent, and not some former KGB weakling."

Svarzkova flexed her hand. "We clean up our own messes."

Bolan stepped forward and looked down into Ramzin's face. "I want your a.s.sistance, Major."

Ramzin spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "To track down Captain Baibakov."

"He will use mafiya connections to get what he needs. Many of those connections will at least start with the contacts you made during your operation in Arizona. You are going to lead me to them."

The major leaned back in his chair. "Why would I wish to betray a comrade to my enemy?"

"You are serving four consecutive life sentences without possibility of parole, Ramzin." The Russian raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Bolan folded his arms across his chest. "How would you like to see daylight?"

Ramzin was silent for several moments. "Your government would pardon me if I cooperate?"

The Executioner's face was as stone. "No. There will be no pardon, Ramzin. No charges will be dropped. You're a convicted felon and an enemy of the United States. You'll simply be deported."

"To Russia?"

Bolan shrugged. "To anywhere. We don't care. But if you ever come back to the United States, you will be treated as an escaped felon."

Ramzin looked at Svarzkova. "And what of Russia? What would be my status there?"

Svarzkova frowned. "You are not officially accused of any crimes in Russia. When your unit was decommissioned, you were honorably discharged and a decorated hero of the Soviet Union. Your pensions are intact. You would simply be a citizen. But your criminal activities are known, Ramzin. If you are found to be working for the mafiya you will be brought down." She smiled at Ramzin unpleasantly. "And I will personally see to it that you do not live to see trial."

Ramzin looked back up at Bolan. "What of my men?"

Bolan shook his head. "Your men are convicted felons. I don't need them. I only need you. However, if you decline, I'll see what I can do about having you and your men scattered across a number of penitentiaries. I'm sure the Aryan Nation would be interested."

Ramzin scowled. "You leave me little choice."

The Executioner's face remained hard. "You have two choices. You can say yes, or you can say no. You have about five seconds to make up your mind."

Ramzin took a deep breath and then let it out. "Very well. I will a.s.sist you."

Bolan slid behind the wheel of the black Bronco and started the engine. Svarzkova buckled her seat belt. "When do we take Major Ramzin?"

"In about twenty-four hours. He has to be processed, and all the papers have to be signed." Bolan smiled as he saw her flex her hand again. "Nice right hand."

The Russian agent blinked and then smiled. "There is a correct way to slap someone for maximum effect. As part of the investigative branch of my department, I was required to learn it. One takes turns exchanging slaps with the instructor until the technique is performed to his satisfaction." She tapped her cheek. "One learns very fast this way, or one learns one does not belong in Russian Military Intelligence."

Bolan shook his head. He had learned long ago that the Russian reputation for toughness wasn't an exaggeration.

The agent looked out the window at the ma.s.sive gray fortress of Leavenworth Prison. "Twenty-four hours. What do we do until then?"

Bolan shrugged. "Get a hotel room, and then you tell me everything you know about Baibakov."

Svarzkova pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. "Very well."

He pulled the Bronco onto the main road back to the town of Leavenworth. Half a mile from the prison they pa.s.sed a PG&E truck parked by the side of the road and a man working up on the pole. They didn't see the ten-power binoculars in his tool bag, and after they pa.s.sed they didn't see him pull out a hand-held radio. The man spoke quickly to the lookout who had made the first sighting in town.

"Confirmed. Targets visited prison. Now returning to town.

A deep, grating voice answered over the receiver. "Acknowledged."

9.

Mack Bolan sat and watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as Valentina Svarzkova ate. She had gone through a salad, an order of loaded potato skins, a chicken-fried steak with french-fried potatoes and coleslaw, three beers and was busy wiping the bottom of her side of chili with the last of the complimentary corn bread. Bolan shook his head.

The shift away from communism to a free-market economy in Russia was still stumbling along a very rocky road, and food shortages were as bad if not worse than they had ever been. Svarzkova was having her first meal in an American restaurant, and the Russian agent was eating as if there would be no tomorrow.

The waitress approached. "So. Would you like dessert?"

Svarzkova nodded her head vigorously. She quickly scanned the menu again, and her eyes lit up decisively. "I would very much like a mud pie, please."

The waitress kept her own thoughts as she went off to fill the order.

Bolan finished his coffee. "So what kind of help can Baibakov expect from the Russian mafiya in America?"

"Russian mafiya is like any other group of organized criminals. They are organized, yet they are clannish and territorially divided. The more powerful and well-established groups probably would not help him. They would fear the trouble it could stir up. Younger, unestablished men, cowboys, as you Americans say, they might flock to a man like Baibakov for the money and the opportunity for action."