"Where did Baibakov get the weapons?"

Pushkin glanced at his notes. "They were acquired in California and sent to Kansas City, where Baibakov received them. I will save you some trouble. Boris Izeshkov has disappeared along with the inner cadre of his men. I believe Baibakov and his forces have left Kansas, as well. My sources could not discover their next destination."

Bolan grimaced. He had expected that. The trail from Kansas had just gone cold. "Who else has he contacted?"

"According to my sources, he has been making inquiries by proxy in Washington, D.C."

Svarzkova looked up at Bolan. The Executioner wasn't surprised. Baibakov was running a terrorist operation, and Washington was the capital of the country. "I need names."

Pushkin frowned. "That may require time and money. Not all of my colleagues are as aware of their patriotic duty to our host country as I am."

Bolan smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "There's no time. Tell them the man who can give me Igor Baibakov can name the dollar amount and the Swiss bank he wants it in." He locked eyes with Pushkin. "That includes you."

Pushkin grunted and shifted in his chair. "I have one other piece of information for you. It is somewhat strange."

"What's that?"

Pushkin's blocky face wrinkled quizzically. "Baibakov inquired about the state of Vermont."

"Why?"

Pushkin spread his hands. "I do not know."

"What kind of organization does the Russian mafiya have in Vermont?"

"Little or none that I know of. I have never heard of Russians emigrating there in any numbers."

Bolan mentally filed that away. "What do you a?" Bolan trailed off as he glanced out the window. There was a series of long thin shadows, like light shining past ropes.

Pushkin frowned. "What is it?"

Bolan's hand slid under his jacket to the grips of the Beretta 93-R. "What days does your building get its windows cleaned?"

Pushkin shrugged. "Wednesdays, I believe."

The Executioner drew the Beretta and flipped the selector switch to 3-round burst. "We're about to be attacked."

Outside the conference-room doors one of Pushkin's bodyguards shouted. There was a quick series of soft thumps, like a boxer doing a speed drill against a pillow, and the door frame rattled as something slumped against it. There was another shout, and Pushkin's secretary screamed. There was a loud gunshot, then another burst of suppressed gunfire.

Svarzkova and the Pushkins drew their pistols. Bolan kept his eye on the window.

Two hands suddenly reached down from above and slapped two disks the size of hockey pucks against the conference room's floor-length window. Bolan dropped below the level of the conference table and roared, "Down!"

The high-rise window blew inward in a storm of flying gla.s.s as the shaped charges detonated. The heavy double doors to the room shuddered as something struck them, but they held. Svarzkova began to fire her pistol through the wooden doors. Bolan kept his eyes on the shattered window that was now open to the sky. Pulleys squealed, and a window washer's scaffold fell in front of the window, occupied by four men in ski masks. They steadied themselves for a moment from the scaffold's sudden drop, then leveled Uzis into the conference room.

Bolan put the front sight of the 93-R onto one of the gunners and fired. The gunman staggered back as he took three rounds in the chest and collapsed to the plank floor of the scaffold. Splinters erupted from the tabletop as a long burst of automatic fire walked across the surface toward the Executioner. He hit his a.s.sailant with a burst from the Beretta, but the man kept firing. His second burst st.i.tched upward through the man's neck and head, and the guy fell forward into the conference room.

The Pushkins had been sitting at the wrong side of the table and were without cover. Ivan Pushkin shuddered as a long burst from an Uzi tore into him. His son resolutely fired a small-caliber pistol into his father's a.s.sailant, but the gunman didn't go down. Bolan put a burst into the man's chest, and he fell back against the scaffold rail, then toppled over.

The fourth man kept firing, and Anatoly Pushkin spun out of his crouch as a bullet struck him in the shoulder. Bolan fired the Beretta, and sparks shot off the man's Uzi as the bullets struck his weapon. The submachine gun fell from the gunman's bloodied hands. The Executioner's second burst snapped the man's head back, then he toppled forward into the scaffold railing and hung there. Svarzkova shouted, "Mike!"

Bolan whirled. Svarzkova was no longer covering the doors. Her pistol was leveled between Major Ramzin's eyes. The Spetsnaz officer's hand hovered over one of the gunmen's fallen Uzis. Ramzin didn't move a muscle as his eyes flicked sideways to lock with Bolan's.

"Gun! I need a gun! We are in this together now, yes? Without a gun I am simply a target!"

Bolan knew from bitter experience that Pietor Ramzin could more than pull his own weight in a gunfight. The Executioner fired a burst through the double doors and said, "Let him have it!"

Svarzkova hesitated for a split second, then turned her attention back to the doors. Ramzin scooped up the weapon, then pulled several spare magazines from one of the dead gunmen's bodies.

Bolan moved to the far side of the conference table. His burst hadn't gone through the door. The oak panels were thick enough to stop 9 mm hollowpoints. No bullets were coming back from the other side, either, which told Bolan what his a.s.sailants had loaded their Uzis with. Svarzkova's weapon was loaded with full-metal-jacket solids, and they were punching through the door with no problem. That alone had kept the men outside the door from attacking.

"How Is your father?" Bolan asked Anatoly.

The man's voice shook from the other side of the table. "My father is dead."

Ramzin checked the action of his commandeered Uzi. "They will either retreat or they will blow the door."

Bolan nodded. "Check the bodies. See if the men had any more explosives."

As Svarzkova put four more rounds through the door, Ramzin crept around the table and checked the bodies. "Yes, this man has two more in his bag."

"Bring them."

The Executioner moved quickly toward the door. He could hear voices speaking quietly in Russian on the other side. Ramzin moved to the other side of the door and tossed Bolan one of the explosives. Bolan saw Ramzin had liberated a pistol, as well. He turned his attention to the charge, a small dark, conical cake of high explosive with a simple three-second pull fuse. There was a strip of paper on the bottom, and beneath it the charge was smeared with adhesive. Bolan pulled the paper away and put the explosive at the juncture of the two doors near the top of the frame. Ramzin nodded and placed his near the bottom.

Bolan placed his hand on the fuse and looked at Svarzkova and Anatoly Pushkin. "Follow us after we go through." The agent reloaded her pistol and nodded. Pushkin acknowledged the order, clutching one of the fallen Uzis.

The Executioner put his hand on the fuse and nodded at Ramzin. "Now."

Both men pulled the fuses and took several steps back. The walls shuddered as the charges detonated and the double doors flew off their hinges and back into the lobby. The Executioner came around the door firing. Ramzin's Uzi hissed into life beside him.

Two men had been about to put charges on their side of the door. One man was sprawled in the middle of the lobby, and another lay beneath one of the doors. The explosion had momentarily stunned the other two men, and Bolan put two bursts into the gunner on the left. The man on the right shuddered and fell as Ramzin cut him down. The major shot the man on the floor and crouched as he looked for more targets.

The man pinned under the door groaned as Bolan stepped onto it with both feet. Ramzin moved to the door to Anatoly Pushkin's office, then checked Ivan's while Svarzkova and Anatoly moved out and covered the door that led to the rest of the twenty-third floor. Ramzin continued his sweep and peered carefully out into the hallway. He nodded satisfactorily. "We are clear."

Bolan knelt and ripped the mask from the face of the pinned man. He was a blond young man in his early twenties, with a face like a hatchet. He swore up at Bolan vehemently in Russian. His eyes flared as Ramzin walked over, and he screamed "Traitor!" at the top of his lungs.

Ramzin shot him between the eyes.

The major stared at Bolan dispa.s.sionately as he slung his Uzi. "He was free-lance sc.u.m. He could tell us nothing of value."

Svarzkova's pistol was leveled at Ramzin. She spit on the floor, and her voice shook with loathing. "You are a butcher."

Ramzin's eyes glittered. "I will have the mafiya filth know, if they come against us they die."

Bolan let it go. Ramzin stooped and picked up a second 9 mm Hi-Power pistol from one of the dead a.s.sa.s.sins. Svarzkova scowled but said nothing as he began going from body to body and stuffing spare magazines into his pockets.

The Executioner turned and walked back into the conference room. Anatoly Pushkin knelt over his father and cradled his head. Ivan Pushkin had taken six rounds through his torso. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets, and an ocean of blood stained the carpet around his body. Anatoly seemed to be unaware of the wound in his own shoulder as he looked up at Bolan with tears in his eyes. "How has this happened?"

Bolan reloaded the Beretta and holstered it. The answer was simple. Once again Igor Baibakov had acted faster than anyone antic.i.p.ated.

"Your father's inquiries rebounded on him. Baibakov must have put out the word he would pay big money to anyone with information on people asking about him. Your father did a lot of poking around last night. It must have gotten back to Baibakov. He tipped off the New York hitters that we were here. Between myself, Svarzkova and Ramzin there was three million dollars in this room waiting to be collected. He probably offered money for your head and your father's, as well. That kind of money attracts real hitters, not just street thugs." Bolan waved a hand at the masked bodies. "These men were professionals, probably ex-Russian military or police."

Anatoly looked about the room. "Yes. What you say is sensible."

Bolan's face grew grim. "There is one other thing to consider. They knew we'd all be here in this room, and they knew when. Someone in your organization must have talked."

Anatoly nodded slowly. His tears had dried, and his face was almost expressionless. His voice was very calm. "That person will be found and killed." The younger Pushkin looked up at Bolan steadily. "I hold you partially responsible for my father's death. But he chose to help you, and helping you kill Baibakov is the best vengeance he can have. You have my word I will use my father's resources to help you any way I can to see Baibakov die. After that, there is no friendship between us."

"I understand." Bolan left Anatoly alone with the body of his father. Anatoly wouldn't forget the man who brought Igor Baibakov and Pietor Ramzin back into their lives. Bolan suspected there might well be a price on his head even after Baibakov was captured or killed.

12.

Mack Bolan locked the hotel door. He and Lieutenant Svarzkova had checked into a small hotel in Queens as Mr. and Mrs. Mike Belasko, much to Svarzkova's amus.e.m.e.nt. Ramzin was busy in the room next door. The major had politely asked Bolan for a knife. They had stopped the cab at an Army-surplus store, and Ramzin had picked out a used Marine Corps Ka-bar fighting knife. Through the thin walls Bolan could dimly hear the Russian rhythmically running the blade over a sharpening stone he had bought.

Svarzkova sat on the bed and looked at him reproachfully. Bolan sighed. "I know, if you had it your way Ramzin would be hog-tied and chained to the foot of the bed." The Russian agent's voice was bitter. "If I had my way, he would be in the morgue with a bullet in his brain."

"He has a price on his head like we do. He won't be safe in the United States or Russia until Baibakov is dead, and he knows it. Besides, we need him, and he won't be much help in a firefight if we keep him bound and gagged."

Svarzkova frowned and looked away. Russian Military Intelligence was in command of Spetsnaz. As one of its agents, she considered Ramzin a renegade and a traitor to his country. She made no effort to hide her feelings about having him unshackled and armed in the next room. Bolan's eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Her hands were shaking. "How are you holding up?"

Svarzkova looked down at her hands and smiled ruefully. "No. I am fine, it is just a"

"Things are happening pretty fast."

"Yes. Things are happening very fast."

Bolan nodded. "This was your first shoot-out."

The Russian agent reddened slightly. "This has been my first two shoot-outs. In Russia I am a field operative. I have been undercover. I have made arrests. I have drawn my gun. But this a"

Bolan understood the feeling. Senior Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova was in a foreign country and had been ambushed by heavily armed a.s.sa.s.sins twice in the past three days. They had spent the other half of the past seventy hours in cars and planes tracking down criminals. She was suffering from combat fatigue. Bolan put his hands on his hips. Svarzkova was a lieutenant in the Russian military. In Bolan's experience there was only one thing to be done.

"Call room service. Have them send up a bottle of vodka."

Svarzkova almost clapped her hands with glee. "Excellent!" Bolan's eyebrow rose as the agent flung herself across the bed, grabbed the phone off the nightstand and punched in the number for room service.

"Yes. I would like a bottle of vodka."

Bolan picked up the satellite link. "I'm going to go contact my people."

Svarzkova nodded distractedly without looking up. "Yes. Stolichnaya, please. On ice. With two gla.s.ses."

Bolan took the satellite link into the bathroom and opened the case. He pressed several b.u.t.tons and connected with Kurtzman.

"We heard about your skirmish in Manhattan from Hal. Sounds like Baibakov isn't wasting any time."

"He isn't sparing any expense, either."

"He's put a price on your head?"

"Along with Lieutenant Svarzkova and Ramzin."

"How much?"

"A million each."

Kurtzman grunted. "The Italian Mafia used to have a lot more."

Bolan grinned slightly. "I've been marked down. But these guys were pros. They used a two-p.r.o.nged attack, shaped charges for entry and they had silenced weapons. The ante has gone up from shotguns in parking lots." He connected a portable fax machine to the link and opened a folder. "Pushkin managed to get us some solid information before he was killed. I'm sending over Baibakov's shopping list now."

Bolan waited while the information was bounced off the satellite and back down to Virginia. A moment later Kurtzman whistled. "Our friend isn't playing around, is he?"

Bolan looked at his own copy of the list. "What does this list tell you?"

There was a moment of silence while the wheels turned in Kurtzman's mind. "It tells me Baibakov has at least half a platoon of hard-core soldiers at his disposal. I'm betting the .44 Magnum revolvers and the Barrett .50s are personal weapons."

Bolan nodded. "What else do you notice?"

"I'm way ahead of you. He acquired only a relatively small quant.i.ty of plastic explosive. More than enough to make a couple of car bombs, but nowhere near enough to blow up anything of major significance. I think the plastique is more for tactical use than as their primary weapon. Baibakov has outfitted his people like soldiers going off to a war. I don't think they're planning on blowing up the White House or the United Nations Building. My bet is they intend to pull off some kind of military-style raid, and they're going to do it in strength. That's a.s.suming, of course, that Baibakov hasn't picked up a few tons of ammonia fertilizer and some trucks we haven't heard about. I also don't believe all his men are Red Falcons. I'd bet he's picked up some Russian shooters from the mafiya who are looking for action. He'd want only the best, though. I'd expect ex-military men who are fluent in English."

Bolan smiled. Those were his thoughts exactly. "I have more, but it's not good. Baibakov has contacted the Russian mafiya in the capital."

Kurtzman sighed. "Well, that was to be expected. It still doesn't help much. D.C. is a big city, and it must have hundreds of legitimate targets for the Red Falcons."

"I have one other piece of information. It's a strange one. Pushkin mentioned that Baibakov had made some sort of cryptic inquiry about Vermont."

For a moment the line was silent. "Vermont?"

"Vermont."

Kurtzman sounded puzzled. "You mean the state."

"That's right. Run that through your short-list and see if it cross-references with anything."

"Hold on." The Executioner waited while Kurtzman crunched data, and then he heard the magic word. "Bingo."

"What have we got?"

"We have Eudora McCain, United States senator from the Green Mountain State."