Infiltration. Don Pendleton
him as an amateur and hung up immediately.
“Yes, I was just told to expect your call.”
“I assume we need to meet.” It wasn’t a question.
“That would be best,” Volkov said. “I have a particular place in mind.”
“I’d prefer we do this on some neutral ground,” the man replied. “You’ll understand that I can’t be too careful. I’m a stranger to the area, and it wouldn’t be proper or respectful to impose some sort of intimacies until we get to know each other better.”
“You sound very savvy,” Volkov said. “I’ve been informed your résumé is impressive. I’ve also noted that you have quite a bit of experience, although it seems you’ve been seeking work for some time. I take it the prospects have not been good?”
“They’ve been scarce with this economy,” the man replied. “So are you willing to interview on my terms?”
“I think that can be arranged,” Volkov said.
The man immediately gave him an address for a quiet, out-of-the-way spot down on the waterfront. It was a café of some sort; though Volkov had never been there, he did know of it. The environment catered to a yuppie clientele, business class types, so meeting in that place wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. They agreed to rendezvous in one hour.
“Come alone,” the man said, and hung up before Volkov could reply.
Oh, I most definitely will not come alone, Volkov thought.
BOLAN DIDN’T TRUST the Wolf, but his mission required he make the connection. This guy was obviously the muscle for Godunov, who was the apparent brains of the operation. Not that Bolan would make the mistake of thinking the Wolf was stupid; a soldier didn’t live long if he had a habit of underestimating his enemy. The name of the game was cunning and a healthy respect for the abilities of somebody with the Wolf’s background.
Ten minutes before the meet, Bolan reconnected with Stony Man. The information Price could offer him was scant, at best.
“I’m afraid we can’t tell you a lot about this guy,” she said. “He covers his tracks pretty well.”
“Surely he’s left some sort of trail.”
“Most of this came from an old friend I have in the NSA’s Signals Intelligence unit, and there’s not much to go on,” Price told him.
“I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“We think his real surname is Volkov, first name unknown. Possibly raised in the Ukraine, but that’s also unconfirmed. There are about three dozen men with that last name, all of whom hail from northern Russia, and about half that many the right age and type suitable for the Wolf’s kind of work. We’re pretty certain he’s operated in about a half-dozen countries and under a variety of aliases.”
Bolan sighed. “Sounds like a lot of ifs and maybes, Barb.”
“I know, Striker, and I wish I could give you more, but that’s what we’ve got. I’m not keen on the idea of you going into this situation on such weak information.”
“I’ve done a lot worse recently,” Bolan said.
Price laughed, because she heard the grin in his voice. “Yes, that you have.”
“What about this moniker, the Wolf. That jingle any bells with your sources?”
“Yes, we did get that much. Volkov is actually Russian for wolf.”
Bolan chewed on that a moment before replying. “Okay, sounds like I’ll just have to go for broke on this one and hope fate deals me one more decent hand.”
“Don’t take any risks, Striker,” Price replied. “If it gets too hot you can always pull out and regroup, give us time to hit this from another angle.”
“I don’t think we have that much time, Barb, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Be careful.”
“Out here,” the Executioner said.
He sat in his rental and studied the harborside café and surroundings, watchful for anyone out of the ordinary. Chances were slim to none that Volkov would follow his instructions to come alone, and if he did have additional men, Bolan knew they’d be professional enough to make themselves conspicuous. The soldier figured if he played his cards right he’d walk away from the meet. He’d picked the place at random out of a phone book, after checking with a local shop owner for a decent public venue to conduct an impromptu business meeting. The shop owner had taken one look at Bolan with an expression that implied he wasn’t buying the whole business meeting story. Obviously, this area was used more to conduct meetings between unsavory characters than Bolan had first surmised. Still, the shop owner’s recommendation had seemed acceptable.
Bolan kept one eye on the storefront and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the meet was supposed to go down, and so far he hadn’t seen anything to alert him that trouble brewed in the near future. But again, he couldn’t rely on that alone. The Wolf hadn’t survived this long without being careful, and he would most certainly bring backup, even if he bought Bolan’s cover and story as a down-on-his-luck enforcer looking for work.
The entire thing was thin at best, but Bolan knew he didn’t have any other options. Without this charade he stood almost no chance of getting inside Godunov’s operations. Even this move wouldn’t necessarily put him in the center of things unless he could convince Godunov that some “outside force” threatened the operation. That would be the crux of his story to the Wolf, and maybe, just maybe, Bolan could pull it off.
He scanned the crowd in front of the café again, and this time he spotted the mark. The man was tall and muscular, his conditioning visible through the tan slacks and black T-shirt he wore. It wasn’t so much how he looked as how he moved that allowed the Executioner to pick him out of a crowd. Trained and experienced combatants carried themselves in very specific ways, and while those telltale signs weren’t obvious to the untrained observer, they spoke volumes to a professional like Bolan. This was definitely the Wolf.
The soldier got out of his sedan, locked it and proceeded straight toward him. He reached the café just as the mercenary stepped inside and began to scan the crowded tables.
Bolan came up behind him and quietly said, “Looking for me?”
The Wolf, aka Volkov, turned and glanced at him in surprise. They were about the same height, although the Russian might have had an inch or two on Bolan. His blond hair and cool blue eyes reminded Bolan of Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s fearless leader, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Lyons possessed a humoring demeanor just beneath the cynical surface he wore, there was nothing even remotely gregarious about Volkov. Bolan guessed there was only hard, cold granite in the muscular chest of this guy, and a psychopathic nature born from a love for killing—and it was obvious Volkov had done a lot of it.
“Not a good start, sneaking up on a potential employer,” Volkov said with a sneer.
“Funny, I didn’t think I was ‘sneaking’ up on you,” Bolan replied with an equal amount of acid in his voice. He had to be conciliatory, but he also needed to maintain the aura of a hardened Mob enforcer. It was important in his role that he show Volkov he wouldn’t just flip over and show his belly to anybody; such a move would cause him to lose any and all credibility in the Russian’s eyes, and more than likely lead to trouble.
Bolan glanced outside, and although he didn’t spot anybody, he said, “I see you didn’t come alone like I told you.”
“You seem to have forgotten your place here, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “You’re here asking me for something, not the other way around. I do whatever the fuck I want to do. You get me?”
Bolan made a show of looking uncertain, letting Volkov think he’d taken him off his guard, and then he smiled. “Yeah, sure… I get you, pal. No