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CHAPTER SIX

Eduardo Capistrano had made his fortunes on the philosophy there was a sucker born every minute.

He didn’t see how this made him any different than the hundreds of other traders and foreign investors. After all, dealing with companies in other countries—particularly those in the E.U.—had always been more lucrative. There weren’t the regulations to deal with that he faced in the U.S., and he didn’t have the IRS crawling up his ass every tax season. No 1099 interest statements or foreign income investment slips; nobody from the Securities Exchange Commission sniffing around, crapping on his lawn and the like.

No, all Capistrano had to do was sit back and watch the cash roll in.

Sure, every once in a while he’d have to field a complaint from some yuppie calling from his mansion up in the Cape, take the occasional panicked call from a rich bitch sunbathing her sculpted body courtesy of modern medical science. But a kickback here or a few grand in interest dividends usually kept them at bay.

After all, they didn’t need to know Capistrano was pulling down over a mil-and-a-quarter a month. He’d given up his personal integrity and kept his mouth shut, and it had definitely paid off.

And it wasn’t just the cash. There were the other perks to think of, like the young, dark-haired Hispanic woman squirming her head deeper into his lap as she stretched her sensuous, athletic body on the sofa. His sixty-inch plasma televisions with the wireless internet and the high definition picture-in-picture. The vacations to exotic locales like Cancun, Rio de Janeiro and Greece, or the “business trips” twice a year to Paris. Ah yes, and how he could he forget Italy? Eduardo Capistrano had never thought such a lifestyle could be his, but it was there for the taking if one was willing to take a few risks.

Despite the fact the activities weren’t exactly on the legit side, Capistrano had never worried about repercussions. The people with whom he did business—rumors flew around circles that it was the Russian mob, but nobody really had any proof—weren’t willing to show their faces in public. They couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny, so it didn’t much matter what he said or did. He could go where he wanted and when he wanted, and the people who took his money had nothing to say about it.

Capistrano enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He worked from home, kept his nose clean and attended all the latest social events. He had two kids in a posh Catholic school. He went to the best parties, wore the best clothes and rubbed elbows with others as rich as him—although they were typically a bit more famous. And he never allowed himself to be in the limelight.

There were two men he paid who were responsible for making sure he stayed that way. They accompanied him just about everywhere he went, made sure his path was clear and that nobody was putting his nose in Capistrano’s business. His men were more than just bodyguards; they ran his errands, maintained round-the-clock security on his home and prevented anyone from getting too close when he was in public.

Capistrano never allowed anyone to photograph him and he didn’t do interviews. Hell, even the half-dozen companies he owned were managed by boot-lickers who got their jollies from driving their BMWs to work and throwing wild poolside parties with others of their species. As long as they did what they were told and signed the papers they were ordered to sign, Capistrano didn’t give a shit what they did.

But all of that lent to his surprise when a tall, distinguished looking type showed up at his front door asking to speak to him. Capistrano’s security chief told the man to go away, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. He wasn’t an overly big man, tall but lean, and not very dangerous looking, so Capistrano thought about telling his man to throw the guy out on his ear. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, and so he let Nick show the guy into the parlor, Capistrano still lived in a part of the world where houses had parlors, near the Hudson River.

“What can I do for you, Mr….”

“My name’s Godunov, Yuri Godunov,” the man said.

Capistrano could feel his blood run cold at his extremities, and he had the sensation of a marble being lodged in his throat. He had only a moment to decide how to react, and he decided not to react at all. But the very name alone told Capistrano just about everything he needed to know. He hadn’t really believed the rumors about the Russian Mob, but this guy, his accent and his name and just every damn thing about him, screamed of Russian until it practically dripped from his pores.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Godunov?”

“You know what you can do for me,” Godunov replied, his smile chilling Capistrano more.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think that you do,” Godunov said. Capistrano started to reach for his panic button beneath the desk, but the sudden appearance of a small pistol in Godunov’s hand stayed him.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Capistrano,” Godunov said. “I am not a man taken to violence, but I can assure you that I know very well how to use this. So instead of doing something you will regret, albeit only for a very short time, perhaps you should listen to me very carefully.”

Capistrano merely nodded as he pressed his lips together. “You have my attention.”

“There are a number of things that have occurred recently, things that greatly disturb me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Godunov waved the muzzle ever so slightly and said, “Remember that I said you should listen carefully. That is best done with your mouth shut. Now as I was saying, the people to whom I answer are very disturbed by your recent indiscretions. You’re being downright greedy, in fact. You see, we’ve allowed you to continue for about as long as can be reasonably tolerated. But in these very tough economic times we must protect our assets…which means protecting you, Mr. Capistrano. You enjoy the freedom you do because you’re a producer, a man who knows how to get money out of even the most destitute. The difficulty that is presented to us, however, is that you have not been quite as generous as we’d hoped. That is about to change.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are or who you work for but—”

Godunov’s laugh dripped with derision. “Come now, Mr. Capistrano, do you think me a fool? Look at this place. Look at it! You live like a king, but you give like a peasant. And I’m here to deliver a message, one that would be in your best interests to heed.”

“I don’t respond to threats, Mr. Godunov. I make them.”

“You make nothing apart from us, Eduardo. We have been patient and allowed you to keep the majority of the funds from your investors. Now it is time to return what you have borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” Capistrano laughed so loudly he thought he might fall out of his chair. “Everything that I have I earned.”

“No.” Godunov shook his head like a petulant child. “Everything you have we earned. You are not an independent operator. You never were, in fact. We just let you think you were. All the paperwork for those companies you allegedly own is utterly worthless. None of it is legal or binding. You were so busy scooping up the pot that you forgot you had put others in to play the game for you. Those individuals were very cleverly placed through our own machinations, and they have done a marvelous job of keeping our operations afloat while making money. Now it’s time to return what you’ve borrowed, and with interest.”

“I don’t have any of this money that you’re yapping about, pal,” Capistrano lied.

Godunov shook his head in disbelief. “You just don’t seem to understand what I’m telling you. Yes, that must be it….You are stupid, perhaps? Let me explain this in a way that will assuredly make things clear for you. Your monies and holdings, all of them, will be transferred to the control of my people within the next twenty-four hours. If you attempt to interfere with us, we will take everything you own and exploit it for our gain. That includes those lovely children of yours. How are they enjoying that special school they attend? Are they getting good grades? I would hope that their father would want to cooperate with me, because I can tell you that they would fetch a very nice price in some areas of the world.”

Capistrano could hardly believe his ears, but he didn’t doubt a single word of it. Godunov hadn’t come here to kill him, despite waving the gun. He’d come to explain that everything Eduardo thought was his didn’t, in fact, belong to him at all, and probably never had. He’d made the crucial mistake of not looking too closely at his business associates, and in the end it had come back to bite him. He was left with no choice now but to cooperate. Just as the people he thought had been working for him, but had actually been working for Godunov, were doing.

Capistrano sighed and leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling much older than his thirty-eight years. “What do you want me to do?”

BOGDAN LUTROVA STARED absently at the computer monitors as rows of data whizzed by.

The program he had written to penetrate the New York banking system had involved much more than simply hacking the data. No, this system had taken months to build, putting the pieces in place a little at a time so as not to alert the security sniffers and lockout programs meant to deter individuals from doing the very things he had done. When it came down to it, breaking down those barriers involved a give and take; it was the equivalent of an electronic dance, really.

Getting into the system required Lutrova to insert specially designed scripts to test various areas of the New York Central Financial Data Exchange, allowing some scripts to be discovered while he deftly diverted others. There was an unspoken rule in the information security field that the more American security specialists were able to stop attempted hacks, the more confident they became in the integrity of those systems. Such attacks were intended to make them put more faith in their systems than they had a right to expect. It was an old trick, but one that worked frequently.

Once Lutrova had discovered the weaknesses in the system security, it had just been a matter of sending bits of his program into the system. When it came right down to it, computers knew only one language—the binary language of ones and zeroes—and it was a language Bogdan Lutrova had become extremely fluent in over the years. He wasn’t about to let this slip out of his hands.

Godunov’s plan had been simple enough, ingenious really—using the embezzled funds from the RBN’s biggest financiers against them. The monies and securities they had buried weren’t difficult to find; in fact, the money was right under everyone’s noses. It just wasn’t easily accessible. The RBN could have attempted blackmail or extraction by more conventional methods, but by doing it in this fashion they wouldn’t draw any attention to themselves.

It would still take some footwork on the part of Yuri and his mercenary team, but Lutrova had decided not to bother himself which such trivialities. His only concern, as his masters in Russia had instructed, was to get the information they needed so the funds could be moved. How the “contributors” dealt with their sudden change in fortune wasn’t anything he needed to concern himself with. His only task was to make sure the transfers took place when Yuri Godunov wanted them to.

In a way, Lutrova wondered why he was so worried. There wasn’t anything they could do to him without ruining their own plans. At this point in the game, the leaders of the RBN had invested a tremendous amount of resources into this operation. The payoff for Lutrova alone would be half a half-million dollars and a place of his own for the rest of his life. He’d picked an estate outside of Geneva for his retirement, a strange choice to many, but one he knew would suit him perfectly. Who would think to look for the RBN’s premier hacker there?

In spite of it all, Lutrova knew he was expendable. Everyone was expendable in the RBN; the organization thrived on self-reliance and survival. When they had something, they took it. When they needed to generate money, they beefed up their pornography sites and sexual slave trading. If they wanted to bring down some high-tech corporation, they would turn to their vast pool of talents, which comprised many like Lutrova, to destroy that company’s information systems infrastructure.

The slam of a door caused Lutrova to jump, breaking his concentration. Or had he been daydreaming? he wondered. His vision was blurry and his eyes itched. He turned in his seat to see Yuri Godunov enter, a newspaper under his arm and a briefcase in his hand. He would look like any other businessman on the crowded streets of New York City’s financial district, but beneath that facade was a heartless killer and taskmaster. Lutrova didn’t really like Godunov and never had; he always acted superior to anyone else. And in a way, Lutrova felt glad that he’d managed to keep his new relationship with the Americans from the man’s scrutiny.

Godunov stepped into the spacious quarters he’d set up. The place certainly was roomy, and Lutrova had to admit he couldn’t complain about his accommodations. He was well fed, and there were plenty of changes of clothes—all in his size and to his discerning tastes—with just about anything he wanted being little more than a request away. Godunov had set him up with an intercom where he could call on the house staff to fulfill every wish.

Of course, heavily armed guards patrolled the grounds day and night. A large wall of thick mortar ten feet high and topped with wrought-iron spires surrounded the estate. The grounds were fully wired, according to Godunov, with electronic motion and sonic monitoring by day and infrared by night. The place was a veritable fortress, and despite his elegant surroundings, Lutrova could not help but feel he was in more of a prison than an estate.

His mind screamed at him to open his mouth and confess his indiscretions, to beg for his life and promise never to be weak again. But his flesh could not bring himself to do it, and he simply looked at Godunov, with a masked expression he hoped would be unreadable.

“How are the operations coming?” Godunov asked as he set his props on a leather couch.

That was just like the bastard—only concerned with business. “The information is being downloaded as we speak. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours before we have everything we need.”

Godunov sat on the sofa, crossed his legs and withdrew a silver cigarette case and matching lighter from his suit coat pocket. He sighed as he chose a slender brown cigarette and lit it. Through a cloud of smoke he said, “You are certain we cannot do this remotely. We must be on-site?”

“There is no way to actually transfer the funds unless we are on-site and able to physically plug into a terminal. The program can only retrieve the information we need, such as the account numbers and balances. We must still be on-site to plug into a terminal, so that the actual transfers can take place. The bank computers will not permit movement of funds of this size without that confirmation. It’s part of the security features.”

“And the time we will have to be inside,” Godunov said. “It will not take more than five minutes?”

“I’ve already explained that three times to you, Yuri. Why do you keep asking me?”

“Because we are running a tremendous risk here,” Godunov said. “We have planned this down to the last detail, and we are relying on you to make good on the numbers you give us. Not to mention that we cannot be expected to hold our position any longer than that. As soon as the transfers start, federal authorities will be alerted and agents will be sent to the New York First Financial Bank immediately. If they catch us while we’re still inside, we will be required to fight our way out.”

“If you already have the money by then, what difference will it make?”

Godunov chuckled, inhaled smoke from his cigarette and shook his head. “Oh, my dear Bogdan, you really have no idea. It is not merely about having the money. Having it does our people little good if we aren’t there to make sure the wealth is distributed. Only you know the locations where the money is going and only you have access to them. If we are forced to do battle with the police, there is little chance that you will survive, since nobody will be able to protect you.”

“I will do my part, Yuri,” Lutrova said, “just as I’ve promised.”

“But of course you will. I never doubted that. Why are you acting so furtive, my friend? You have been as nervous as a cat since you arrived.”

“It is nothing,” Lutrova replied, his mind racing furiously. “My time with that American gangster shook me up a bit more than I thought.”

“You have been around such men before.”

“Yes, men on our side. But there was something about him I did not trust.”

“Well, his references checked out, and he does appear to have some unique talents that I feel we can exploit. However, if it turns out he is not who he says he is, then I can assure you that he will be dealt with accordingly. You no longer have to worry about him.”

“Good.”

“I am a bit curious, though, what transpired while you were in custody of the U.S. Customs.”

“What do you mean?”

“You did not talk to them?”

Lutrova cocked his head. “Talk to them about what? What exactly are you trying to imply, Yuri? Do you think that I would betray you?”

“Did you?”

“Absolutely not!”

Godunov’s eyes flashed as he stared at Lutrova, although he smoked calmly. After a time, he said, “Okay, my friend, okay. I believe you.”

But something in Lutrova’s gut told him that Yuri Godunov knew.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning sun was peeking over the horizon by the time Mack Bolan arrived at the address Volkov had given him.

The rallying point turned out to be a dumpy house in the heart of the Bronx. The soldier had hoped the placed was isolated enough that he could do recon, but his luck didn’t hold out on that count. The houses were close together. What frustrated him most was that he knew what Lutrova planned to do and he had some idea of when; he just didn’t know how Godunov would put it together. He also had to keep one eye on the Wolf through this; the guy wasn’t trustworthy and Bolan didn’t think he’d yet bought into the Frankie Lambretta cover.

One thing Bolan had become convinced of: neither Volkov nor Godunov ultimately called the shots here. The entire operation was being led by someone much higher up—someone with both financial and political clout that far surpassed the wildest imagination. That was the head Bolan would have to chop off the Hydra before he could make a dent in the RBN, and it was an operation he surmised would take him straight into the flames of perdition before it was over.

Bolan swung the nose of his vehicle into the drive and eased to a stop behind a silver SUV. The soldier quickly withdrew his Beretta, checked the action and then holstered the weapon. Volkov had instructed him to dress in business attire, so Bolan had opted for a conservative gray suit with silver pinstripes, light blue shirt and light gray silk tie. He had no idea what awaited him beyond the doors of this shack of a house with peeling paint and weathered shingles. For all he knew, he could be walking straight into an ambush, one for which he had physically and mentally prepared himself during his drive.

Bolan climbed out of the sedan, walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. He stood there a minute and realized he hadn’t heard the buzzer from inside, so after waiting a minute he knocked. Soon he heard footsteps and then the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar face. Bolan searched his mental files, but didn’t recognize the guy. Probably another freelancer who had managed to stay under the radar of law enforcement; it appeared Volkov remained consistent in his hiring practices.

The guy had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than Bolan’s. He looked at him through the ratty screen a moment—sizing him up, as most professional guns-for-hire would—before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. As Bolan crossed the threshold, the guy stuck out his hand.

Bolan noted the Southern accent as he said, “You Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod as he shook the man’s hand.

“Come on in, the boss is waiting.”

The man led him through a cramped hallway with a worn hardwood floor that appeared dusty with disuse. They continued to a back room that opened onto an equally cramped kitchen. Two other men dressed in business suits sat there. They looked up as the two entered, and Bolan’s escort gestured at them.

“That’s Igor, that’s Keck.”

Bolan appraised each man in a moment. Igor had a short and wiry build; he wore his blond hair in a high-and-tight cut, and his hazel eyes flashed with intensity in the light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Keck looked almost East Indian or Pakistani. A thin, faint scar ran down the left side of his face near to his ear, and Bolan gauged it as a knife wound of some kind, perhaps from straight razor. He also wore his dark hair short, and his expression seemed unreadable.

Each offered his hand in turn, and Bolan shook them briefly. The speaker then said, “I’m Billy, but everybody just calls me Southpaw. We go by first names only here. Guys, this is Frankie.”

Bolan nodded at them and then asked, “Where’s the Wolf?”

“Right here.”

All eyes turned to the kitchen entrance, and Bolan felt a chill crawl up his neck. He hadn’t even heard Volkov come in, and that was no mean feat. Bolan always maintained a keen awareness in his surroundings, yet Volkov had somehow managed to approach his rear flank without a sound. The Executioner filed that fact away, intent on making sure it didn’t happen ever again.

“And I don’t go by that whenever we’re in public. You call me Yan or boss, don’t much care which. Got it?”

Bolan nodded. “Suits me.”

“Fine.” Volkov made a show of looking at his watch. “You’re right on time. That’s good news, because it means you listen and pay attention to detail. Let it become a habit and you just might have a future with this crew.”

“Wilco…boss.”

Volkov nodded and his expression seemed to soften slightly. “We only have a few minutes, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time explaining this to you. Our first job is we got to head upstate to Saint Bartholomew’s. I can explain more on the way up there. This is initiation for you, so I’ll keep the details simple. You’ll follow instructions given by me or Southpaw, there. He’s in charge when I’m not present. Understood?”

“Fine. But I’m just wondering why we’re going to a church.”

“Not a church, a school.”

“Catholic prep school,” Southpaw added, but he quickly shut his mouth when Volkov threw him a look.

Bolan filed the information for later while pretending not to notice the exchange between him and Southpaw. If Volkov had just used his real first name, Bolan knew it would be easier to pick him out of the list of potentials compiled by the Stony Man team. The mention of the school was of a bit more interest to the Executioner, but it also left him with a sense of trepidation. A group of grown men dressed in business suits were going to a Catholic school in upstate New York? Bolan didn’t get it—there had to be some connection to Godunov’s activities, but he couldn’t see it.

Without another word, the men prepared to leave as per Volkov’s instructions. They decided to go in two separate vehicles, with Bolan, the Wolf and Southpaw in one—probably they wanted to keep an eye on the newcomer—while Igor and Keck took the other. Fortunately, Bolan’s rental had the most room, so they opted to let him take the wheel. Bolan counted this decision a fortunate stroke of luck; at least he’d have access to his entire arsenal.

It took them less than two hours to reach the upstate location. On the surface, St. Bartholomew’s wasn’t much different from any other Catholic school. Bolan could only surmise there had to be something of value inside the school. He’d already activated the GPS homing signal on his cell phone so that Stony Man had a track on him. Not that he was worried; the Executioner could most assuredly take care of himself in such a situation. What bothered him more was that they were headed into a potential fire zone filled with innocent teachers, school staff and children.

And Bolan wondered how he would keep the bloodshed confined to the enemy.

IT WASN’T LONG after they arrived at Saint Bartholomew’s Catholic Preparatory School that Bolan could pretty much deduce the enemy’s plan.

Volkov ordered him to pull the sedan to the curb on the far side of the grounds, the entire length of which was bordered by a brick wall, with wrought-iron spires on top covered by the gray-white fingers of dormant ivy. He then instructed Southpaw to stay with Bolan while he went to confer with the other two, who had followed them in an older blue van. The thing was just nondescript enough not to draw attention, but Bolan didn’t doubt it had quite a number of special modifications. Not as practical as the virtual war wagon he drove, which was, unbeknownst to his new “colleagues”, filled with an arsenal of unspeakable firepower.

It would prove to be just what Bolan needed as he engaged Southpaw, aka Billy, in casual conversation.

“So what’s the deal here?” Bolan asked in his best Italian tough guy manner. “We just s’posed to sit out here and freeze our butts off while the other guys get all the action?”

“The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, well, so far I’m not that impressed. How long you known him?”

Southpaw took a deep breath and let it out noisily as Bolan watched him do some quick mental figuring. He finally said, “About two years, I guess.”

“You guess?” Bolan made a show of chuckling. “You don’t know how long you been working for the guy?”

“I just said about two years. You deaf or something?”

“What sort of missions have you done? See a lot of heat?”

“I’ve seen my share.” Then Billy added, “You know what, Frankie, I think you ask too many questions.”

Bolan raised his hands in a show of defense. “Hey, I don’t mean nothing by it. Just making conversation.”

“Well, just stop talking so—”

Volkov rapped on the passenger window and gestured for Bolan to roll it down. He did and Volkov stuck his head inside, his breath visible in the biting morning air. A quick look at the clock told Bolan it was almost 0820 hours, probably just before the first period began inside the school.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You come with us Southpaw. We’re going to need your very unique talents in providing a distraction while we do this. Igor and Keck will stay with the van while Southpaw’s doing his thing.”

“What about me, boss?” Bolan asked.

“You’re going to be our wheels.” He gestured toward a low, squat building that sat to one side. Bolan could see the reflections of sunlight on metal and the occasional movement of vehicles. “See that? That’s the front gate entrance. We’re going to send the van through, and the van’s going to pick up a very specific package for us. You’re going to provide a way for me and Southpaw to get out once that’s done. We’re hoping this will throw off the cops in case we run into trouble. You’ll wait right outside that front entrance. There end up being any problems, you take out the guard and then you wait for us. Everything goes off right, you still wait for us. Got it?”

“Simple,” Bolan said with a nod.

“You better learn something quick, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “There’s a big difference between simple and easy. The two aren’t the same. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure. I got it.”

“Keep in touch,” Volkov said as he tossed a high frequency radio on the seat next to Bolan. He and Southpaw then walked to the van and jumped in.

“All right, you reading me?” Volkov’s voice said a moment later.

“Reading you four-by-four,” Bolan replied.

“Let’s do this,” he said. “You lead us in and then park outside the gate, where you can make a break for it, if necessary. But you don’t move until we’re on board. ’Cause I promise that if you double-cross us, I’ll find you and kill you. You can be sure of that.”

Bolan decided not to reply, instead waving his hand so that Volkov understood he got the message. Fate had dealt him a decent hand on this one, making it possible for him to operate on his own. Now all he had to do was figure out what they had planned, then determine how to stop that plan and still keep anyone from getting in the line of fire. A full-blown fight on the grounds of a Catholic school would be completely unacceptable. He’d have to play this one very close to the vest.

Keeping his pace slow but steady, he approached the main entrance to the school. He’d obviously been right about the start time, because the place was absolutely packed with vehicles, some of them double-parked to drop off kids, while others rolled through the gate. The Executioner kept his eyes open for any running room, counting vehicles and spaces between them as the numbers ticked off in his head. A group of children traveled along the sidewalks, pressed Catholic uniforms gleaming in the morning sunlight as they proceeded toward their school. Others rode with their parents, a good number of vehicles ranging from BMWs to Mercedes to Bentleys, not to mention a gaggle of imports.

Whatever these guns-for-hire had planned, Bolan was almost positive this would amount to a grab. But of whom? Out of the few hundred, perhaps many hundred children that attended Saint Bartholomew’s, why would Godunov have ordered his mercenary team to target just one? Or perhaps two? Bolan’s best guess was that they needed these kids for leverage. Volkov had mentioned that Southpaw would be providing some sort of deception, that he would use his “very unique talents” to do that.